


gather 'round, bring your ghosts

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chris is a BAMF, Dreams, Ghosts, Hunting, M/M, Peter is suave as hell, Stiles doesn't want to be a hunter (no seriously), except maybe he does
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris and Stiles begin to experience insomnia, followed by hallucinations of dead relatives. What follows may or may not include hunting phantoms, breaking up pack wars, noisy conversations in libraries, punching demonic infants in the face, cheap food at roadside diners, copious amounts of alcohol, and a reckless encounter in an abandoned motel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gather 'round, bring your ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-season 2. This is just the prologue, the other chapters will be longer.

**I.**

****

There’s a quiet spot at the edge of the forest where the trees bend back and dip down into a small enclave; a place where the babbling of the nearby brook and the whistling of the ceaseless wind are muffled by the rising wall of bark and leaves. These days, it seems like the only silent place left in Beacon Hills. Chris squats down roughly at the head of the forest trail, bending over to thread his fingers through the fallen pine needles, squinting out into the darkness of the path ahead. Even in the morning light, the thick cover of the canopy casts an ominous shroud over everything in sight.

This is the place, Chris remembers, where he brought Victoria after they made an offer on the house. They’d taken a walk around the neighborhood block, hands absently linked together as the robins and cardinals came out to serenade the street and give voice to the sense of excitement and hope that felt so palpable on that long since forgotten day. Afterwards, they’d come down here to the entrance of the woods and gazed long and hard into the shadows, considering, contemplating.

“This feels right,” she’d said after some time, turning to face him, lips twitching into the slightest of smiles. “I think this is good.” And he’d smiled back, taking her into his arms and kissing her underneath the falling autumn leaves.

But now it’s all gone, and he’s alone. That feeling of warmth and security seems so distant, reduced to a fading memory, forever overshadowed by the threat of violence.

Chris shakes himself off, pulling himself out of his own head to check his phone for messages. Allison still hasn’t responded to any of his voicemails; the only comfort he has left is knowing that wherever she is, at least she’s not with Scott. Chris coughs, a gross hacking chuckle rising up from his aching chest. It feels like some sort of sick irony that Victoria’s aim - ending their daughter’s relationship with the enemy - ultimately came about as a result of her death.

The sound of a passing car up the hill catches Chris’ attention, and he looks over his shoulder to watch it winding around the bend and disappearing from view. There’s a chill in the air today, and he bundles up his jacket tighter around his neck, rubbing up and down the length of the sleeves. He glances back towards the trail, just for second.

And then he’s steeling himself and walking back up to the parked car. It takes a surprising amount of effort to not glance over his shoulder, but he manages somehow. What’s past is past.

 

**II.**

****

He waits until about 7:00 before breaking out the pasta and setting the pot on the stove to boil. There’s no telling when Allison will be home, no point in waiting around.

The marinara sauce churns up hot and fresh in the silver basin, steam rising up and forming condensation all along the rim the bowl. Chris stirs slowly, watching the kitchen timer count down for the noodles. A thick, discolored oval bubbles up in the sauce and pops, spraying crimson drops onto the walls of the pot, dripping down like trails of blood. Chris swallows back a wave of nausea and empties the sauce in the sink without a second thought.

He’s halfway finished eating when Allison finally shows, banging the front door open noisily and popping her head around the corner to make her presence known. 

“Sorry I’m late, I had a project to work on,” she says, voice guarded, frustratingly polite.

Chris sets his fork down. “There are some noodles left in the colander,” he says cautiously, wipes his mouth off with a napkin. “I could make some bread?”

Allison shakes her head, swinging back around the banister to head upstairs. “No thanks,” she calls, shoes clomping on the steps. “Already ate.” 

Her bedroom door slams shut a moment or two later, and Chris lets his napkin drop into his lap, folding his hands together and resting his chin on the bridge of his knuckles. As the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway pounds a relentless rhythm into his brain, he leans away from the table to study the empty chairs beside him. The flat surface of the wooden panels are beginning to collect dust.

Chris grinds his teeth together and picks up his fork to finish his meal.

 

**III.**

****

It’s the longest Friday in living memory, and all he wants is to take a quick shower and go to bed. Life, however, has other plans, and when he comes in through the garage door at the end of the day, he finds Peter Hale sitting in an armchair in the corner of the living room.

Chris sighs, drops his keys down in the little bowl on the countertop. “Something I can do for you?” he asks.

The ceiling fan is turned on low, crooked blades spinning above, humming softly. The dull glow of the frosted bulbs casts Peter’s face in half-shadow, and his teeth glisten in the dark as his mouth curls into a faint smile. “We should really have a conversation, don’t you think?” His hands are folded together in his lap, legs crossed gingerly at the knees. He looks for all the world like a fucking James Bond villain. All that’s missing is the cat to pet.

“If there’s going to violence, I’d appreciate it if we could just skip to that part,” Chris replies drily. “No reason to preempt the destruction of my house with idle chit-chat.” 

Peter clucks his tongue. He makes a grand, sweeping gesture towards the couch. “Please. If I intended to do you harm, I would have done so long before now.”

Chris shrugs off his jacket, folding it up as he moves around and drops heavily onto the sofa. He tenses, cocking his head, listening. “Is she...?” he asks, trailing off.

“Not here,” Peter answers readily. His smile widens, turning noticeably smugger. “Strange that I seem to know more about your daughter’s whereabouts than you do.”

“Not so strange,” Chris counters. He props his elbow up on the armrest, rubs his forehead tiredly. “I’ve been giving her some space. To, uh, come to terms with things in her own time.”

Peter opens his mouth, hesitates. He runs his tongue along his lower row of teeth, looking curiously thoughtful. “Your wife tried to kill Scott McCall,” he says after a full minute of silence, cutting straight to the chase. 

Chris arches an eyebrow. “She did,” he responds. He crosses his legs, matching Peter’s posture.

“Despite the fact that he did not cause harm to any human.”

“Despite that fact,” Chris says, nodding. His eyes sharpen. “She was acting in what she believed to be Allison’s best interests. She warned the boy off, told him to stay away. He didn’t listen.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, gaze piercing, appraising. “She broke the code,” he says delicately.

Chris’ toes curl inside his shoes, shoulders tensing up. He cracks his knuckles, forces a tight smile. “She broke the code,” he agrees, voice thick, strained. After a moment, he adds, “As did my sister.”

“Hmm.” Peter leans back in his chair, uncrossing his legs. He studies the hunter carefully, eyes darting about in quick, pinpointed motions. “You’re different than the others,” he murmurs. “Different than your family. In my experience, humans raised in your little cult tend to follow the example of their parents in both mind and deed, but it seems as though you actually have-” He breaks off, lip curling into a sneer. “...principles. I wonder why that is.”

The porch window lights up as the headlamps of the neighbors’ car beam into the living room, illuminating the smudges and fingerprints on the glass panes. The muffled noise of tires squelching against the mud and rainwater in the gutter underlines the silence as the two men stare at one another. The grandfather clock intones its deep and somber alarm as the hour hand strikes nine. The cones of the headlamps twist away, turning to cut through the darkness as the car rounds the corner at the street’s end.

“Not that this isn’t fun,” Chris grouses, “but I’m guessing you’re not here just to talk about Victoria?”

Peter’s teeth gleam a brilliant shade of white. “You guess correctly,” he replies, silky smooth. “I just figured it would be prudent address the elephant in the room straight away.” He pats down the fabric of his pants, meticulously brushing away bits of dust and particles. Chris watches them fall the floor, determined not to look the werewolf in the eye.

“What else, then?”

The springs under the chair cushion squeak as Peter leans forward. “An Alpha pack has arrived in town. I’m giving you a heads up.”

Chris closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit,” he mutters. “Just what we need. More fucking killing. Brilliant.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Peter sing-songs, picking absently at his fingernails. “Good God, you’re worse than my nephew, all up in arms and ready to go to war at the first sign of trouble. We don’t _know_ anything yet. There’s no reason to assume this has to end in bloodshed.” He looks away, turns to face the window. “On the contrary,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Chris, “this might provide precisely the sort of structure and discipline Derek needs. He’s clearly proven himself incapable of running a pack of his own.”

“And what, having him join up with a gang of power-tripping narcissists is going to stabilize his ego?” Chris huffs, skeptical. “That doesn’t sound wise.”

Peter waves him off impatiently. “It would be more of a gesture of goodwill than anything else,” he says confidently. “Strength in numbers is invaluable to our kind, as I’m sure you know. If Derek is willing to play nice, we can avoid unnecessary violence. Probably.”

Chris snorts. “Since when are you so opposed to violence? Last I checked, you didn’t seem all that concerned with taking lethal action.”

The curtains flutter in the breeze from the ceiling fan, billowing out and brushing against the round table at Peter’s left. The werewolf’s eyes burn with dark light, forehead creasing with wrinkles. “I had my reasons,” he says, dangerously calm. “If you care to recall.”

In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Chris digs his fingernails into the couch’s armrest, willing himself not to reach for his gun as he waits for the light to fade from Peter’s eyes. When it does, he replies, “I remember fine.” He pauses, lets his grip slacken. “I am...sorry.” 

It feels strange to say, feels alien on his tongue as his mouth forms the words. Peter blinks, almost looks startled. “Sorry?”

Chris fidgets uncomfortably. “Kate,” he clarifies. “My sister. I didn’t know, even though I should have. I should have seen the warning signs, seen that she was getting out of control. But I didn’t, and she...did what she did. And for what she’s caused, I am sorry.” He grimaces, eyes flickering down to the carpet. “I am sorry,” he repeats, words slurring, sliding out in a low mumble. “Someone from my bloodline should apologize for it, and let’s be honest, you’re not likely to hear it from anyone else.”

The chiming of the grandfather clock has faded away, but the remnants of its melody still ring in Chris’ ears. He rubs his palms together, foot tapping with nervous energy. When he looks up, Peter’s expression is blanked out, unreadable. All of the confidence and suave and composure are nowhere to be found; just stupefied silence.

The werewolf clears his throat, nods once. “This is not the first Alpha pack I’ve dealt with,” he says after a minute, somewhat stilted in his speech. “Unless they’re raving mad, they can be negotiated with.” He raises a finger, jabs it pointedly in Chris’ direction. “Bringing a hunter into the mix will only complicate things,” he continues, the hint of a threat curling around the edges of his words. “I would advise that you stay out of this. For your own sake, and for the sake of your daughter, if nothing else.”

Chris nods slowly, pressing down on his knees as he stands up. He walks across the room, undoes the chain on the liquor cabinet. “The deal is the same as it has ever been,” he says calmly. He wipes the dust off an unopened bottle, fishes around for the corkscrew. “As long as I don’t turn on the news and read about any ‘animal attacks,’ your business is your own. I don’t interfere with turf wars unless absolutely necessary.”

He hear a rustling from behind as Peter stands up, brushing off his coat. “Glad we understand each other.” The frosted glasses clink together as Chris pulls them out from the middle shelf of the cabinet. He turns and raises an eyebrow, lifting the bottle in question. Peter shakes his head. “No thank you. I think I’ll be going now.”

“Ah, so soon?” Chris replies, sarcasm oozing from every syllable. “And we were just getting chummy.”

Peter studies him shrewdly, smug confidence back in full force. “For what it’s worth,” he says carefully, “it does get easier with time. The pain, I mean.” He takes a step closer, eyes narrowing to slits. “Don’t get me wrong, it will always be _there_. You’ll never forget her, and the hurt will always live inside you. But it does become easier to bear after a while. You won’t think about it so much. You’ll learn to live again.” His lips twist into a rueful smile. “What else _can_ you do, after all...”

Chris’ gaze falls to the floor. He rubs his thumb up and down the neck of the bottle, fingers tightening very nearly hard enough to shatter the glass. “Tell me,” he says stiffly, “what was it like? Being dead? I’m curious.”

The floorboards groan quietly as Peter steps away, exiting through the kitchen. “It was like being nothing.”

When Chris eventually looks up, he is alone.

 

**IV.**

****

Even in the aftermath of tragedy, a hunter’s instincts never die.

There’s a small clearing in the woods just outside the Hale house, hidden from view by the cover of tangled vines and brightly colored foliage; the perfect stakeout spot. Chris sits in the car with the radio turned low, fumbles around in the fast food bag and munches on fries while he peers through the leaves and branches. 

He adjusts the focus on the binoculars, watches the pack gathering together at the front of the house, standing in a circle and talking in hushed voices. There’s Peter, hands folded behind his back, rubbing at his wrist as he listens patiently. Derek is at his left, eyebrows narrowed, clearly frustrated and resisting the urge to pace. The Lahey boy ( _Isaac_ , Chris’ mind supplies) is looking back and forth between them, eager to please, meek and confused.

This continues for about five minutes, and then the werewolves are filing back into the house, one after the other. Chris watches the windows for signs of movement, for anything worthwhile.

The candlelight glow in the upstairs bedroom snuffs out after a while, and Chris chucks the binoculars into the passenger’s seat, disgusted. He starts the car.

There’s nothing to be done here.

 

**V.**

****

He has dreams; repeated nights of vague, feverish nightmares from which he jerks awake with choked gasps, sweating and grasping at the bedsheets until he comes back down to reality, recognizes the hallucinations for what they are.

He closes his eyes and sink back down and lay his head against the pillow, slowly reach over to the other side of the bed. It’s an instinctive gesture, and it’s only when he feels the cool emptiness underneath his fingers that he remembers. He opens his eyes and stares at the picture frame on the bedside table: a family photo from their last vacation together. He sees the Grand Canyon in the background, a vast expanse of red earth sprawled out under the blue sky, stone carved down into ruts and grooves all along the walls of the ravine. And in the foreground of the photo, the three of them together, all smiling. All happy.

His throat feels dry, and he tosses the sheets away, clambers out of bed to grab some medicine from the kitchen cabinet.

The aching in his head keeps him awake until morning.

 

**VI.**

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and there is a chill in the air. The fog of gray clouds overhead threatens rainfall at any moment, despite the cheerful chattering of the birds in the trees. The lacrosse field is damp with dew, brown dirt unearthed from beneath the grass by way of the players’ cleats. Long blades of green in desperate need of a trimming lie flattened by the boys’ shoes as they practice.

Scott and Stiles are the only ones out today, taking turns playing goalie, each trying to score against the other. Their jerseys are stained with sweat, brows furrowed in concentration. Chris sits alone in the bleachers, rubbing his hands together for warmth, ignoring the wind as it whips at his reddening cheeks.

“Come on, take it easy on me!” Stiles calls, panting. He bends over, pressing his hands down on his knees as he catches his breath. “Not all of us have superpowers, remember?”

Scott grins, crossing his arms behind his back in an exaggerated stretching motion. He pauses, smile slipping away as he spots Chris in the stands. He catches Stiles’ eye and mouths something, jerking his head in Chris’ direction. Stiles turns to look, frowns in puzzlement.

A soft roll of thunder resounds in the distance, and the boys look up simultaneously, squinting through the blast of sunshine peaking through the cloud cover. Chris blinks as a tiny droplet of water splashes down on the tip of his nose. He brushes it away, buttons up his jacket as Scott jogs over to meet him at the bleachers.

The boy stops at the bottom row, props his elbows up on the gate. “Mr. Argent?” He chews on his bottom lip, wipes his forehead. “Did you want to talk to me?”

Chris nods, pats the metal bench beside him. “Just for a minute.”

Scott coughs into his sleeve and glances nervously over his shoulder. He waves Stiles off, trying to communicate something meaningful with his eyebrows. “I’ll catch up with you later, dude!” he calls.

Stiles shrugs. “Alright.” He shoots Chris a curious look before picking up his lacrosse stick and heading for the building, wiping flakes of dirt off his knees as he goes. Chris watches him leave, rubbing the sleeves of his jacket as another blast of thunder - louder this time - cracks across the sky. Scott’s shoes squeak on the bleachers as he ascends the steps, leaving a trail of wet grass and clumps of mud in his wake. He plops down heavily on the bench, scooting over to sit a couple of feet away from Chris.

“So?” he prompts uncertainly. “What’s up? Umm, sir.”

Chris twitches irritably. He stares off into the distance, over the road where the traffic is starting to build up at the intersection. The trees sway in the breeze. “We have some things to discuss, don’t you think?”

Scott flinches, still chewing on his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. “I’m not seeing Allison anymore,” he says quickly. “I’m not, uh...she doesn’t-” He breaks off, makes a discontented noise. “She broke up with me. So, yeah. You don’t have to worry about me and her. Us. Yeah.”

“Good to hear,” Chris responds, toneless. “But that’s not what I want to talk about.” He shifts slightly, draws his legs closer together, knees knocking up against one another. 

“Oh.” Scott relaxes slightly, although his frown deepens. “So, pack stuff then? There’s not much to say about that, honestly. I already told Peter no dice.”

Chris turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “What?” He leans in closer, pausing at Scott’s momentary look of panic. “What did he want from you?”

Scott makes an aborted movement with his hand, gestures vaguely. “You know, same as usual. Just wanted me to be a part of his little club. Like I said, I told him no.” 

“He wants you in his pack?” Chris says slowly. He grimaces. “Did he say why?”

“No. And technically it’s Derek’s pack, not Peter’s. And considering everything that’s happened recently, I kinda doubt that Derek wants anything to do with me. Which is fine as far as _I’m_ concerned, but Peter didn’t seem too happy about it.” Scott hums thoughtfully. “And, you know, that struck me as pretty weird, too. I mean, does he not remember that I helped _kill_ him? And now he’s trying to get all buddy-buddy with me?”

Chris rubs his face tiredly. “He’s not as emotionally driven as Derek. You’d do well to keep that in mind.”

Scott’s nose crinkles up in confusion. “Uh...okay. Thanks, I guess.” He pauses, picking at the seam of his pants. “So, is that it?”

“Hmm.” Chris stands abruptly, starts down the stairs without looking back. “We may not be allies, but we do share a common interest in not seeing any more violence. You know where to find me if you ever need help.”

He crosses the field, shoes squelching in the wet grass. Lightning touches down on a distant hilltop.

 

**VII.**

****

They used to have family movie nights once a month, whenever all three of them had a free evening to spare. They would sit together on the couch under that raggedy old quilt Victoria’s mother gave them as a gift all those years ago. Chris would fix popcorn on the stove and make hot chocolate on the winter nights, and they’d turn off the lights and just watch old films in the warm darkness of the house.

Now, it’s just the two of them, and Chris sits by himself in the armchair as the movie plays out. Allison sprawls out on the couch, wrapped up in the quilt with her head resting on the satin pillow, bowl of popcorn lying untouched on the floor.

It’s an old Humphrey Bogart picture, and the TV’s bad reception makes the black-and-white appear fuzzy. 

“This was one of Mom’s favorites,” Allison says about halfway through, speaking for the first time since arriving home from school earlier in the day. 

Chris swallows, keeps his focus on the screen. “Was it? I don’t remember that...”

“She always talked about how handsome he was in this movie,” Allison replies, waving an arm at the TV. “She’d say it every time it came on, just to tease you. And you’d just smile and ignore her, and she’d laugh.” Her voice wobbles, and she looks away, wiping discreetly at her eyes.

Chris picks up the remote and lowers the volume. “Yeah, I think I remember now,” he says softly.

He tunes out the chatter of the dialogue onscreen, becoming uncomfortably aware of the deafening silence that has the rest of the house in a stranglehold. The darkness that once signified companionship and happiness now seems threatening, as if the ghosts of the past are lurking in the shadows, just waiting to leap out. Chris feels the perverse urge to jump up and flick on the light switch, and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from actually doing it.

“They killed her,” Allison says, and she sounds stronger now, bitter. “They killed her, and you’re not even angry about it.”

Chris reaches over and turns on the lamp at his side. He fixes Allison with a steely glare. “Not like that,” he murmurs. “Not like you say. You’re twisting it, sweetheart.”

“What, then?” She sits up, rubbing angrily at her tears. She matches his glare. “Explain it to me.”

Chris sighs. “What is it you’re wanting me to explain? Our line of work is dangerous. I know that, your mother knew that. This was always a possibility, and yes, it hurts like a bitch, but it’s not a _surprise_.” Allison looks as though he’s slapped her, and he winces at her wide-eyed expression of betrayal. “I know it’s hard-”

“I don’t understand you,” she interrupts, voice strained, broken. “I go out with Scott, and you’re _furious_ with me for dating a werewolf. Then when I realize that, hey, you’re right, they _are_ dangerous, you’re disappointed in me for stepping up the plate.”

“Stepping up to the plate?” Chris repeats, disbelieving. He bites back a borderline hysterical laugh, passes it off as a strangled cough. “What the hell are you talking about? Do you want to become your aunt? No code, no mercy? Is that it?”

He’s venting weeks’ worth of pent-up anger, and he knows it. Knows he shouldn’t be shouting at his child, shouldn’t take it out on her. But now it’s out there, and he’s on a roll. And he can’t find it in him to stop.

“They killed my mother!” Allison yells at him, and it stings like a dagger to the heart.

Chris sees red, chucks the remote at the wall. It splits open, batteries spilling out onto the floor. Allison cringes away from the noise, all of her rage draining away. 

“Your mother killed herself,” Chris grits out, stomach twisting in pain as he finally admits aloud what he’s so far been unable to reconcile in his own mind. “She tried to kill your boyfriend, and she paid for it. Simple as that.”

Allison stares at him, mouth hanging open. She clamps it shut, face slipping into an expressionless mask. “Oh.” She stands stiffly, drawing the quilt tighter around her shoulders. “Okay then.”

Chris watches as she takes to the stairs, closes his eyes. “Allison...”

“I’m going to bed.” She vanishes from his line of sight, and her bedroom door clicks shut a few seconds later.

Chris walks over to collect the pieces of the remote, gathering them up and setting them in a pile on the coffee table. He presses the power switch on the monitor, turns the screen to black. And then, left alone in utter darkness, he allows himself to break down. Just this once.

 

**VIII.**

****

His mind is restless. Every day is a living hell, a never-ending series of sympathetic glances and hushed whispers behind cupped hands, watchful eyes following him wherever he goes. Although the circumstances behind Victoria’s demise almost certainly remain a secret, a town this small can’t help but catch a glimpse of the broad picture.

_Suicide_.

It’s the unvoiced thought on the tip of the cashier’s tongue at the gas station as she politely informs Chris that he owes $1.50 for that pack of peanuts. He doesn’t need the heightened senses of a werewolf to pick up the sickening scent of pity rolling off of her in noxious waves. It’s not just her; it’s the old ladies on the bench in the park with their clucking tongues, and the awkward shuffling movements of the middle school boys as he passes them on the sidewalk. 

Even Sheriff Stilinski gives him tight little nod as their eyes lock across the aisle at the grocery store, a silent gesture of condolences. And Chris can’t do anything but smile back, painfully forced, and go about his merry business. It’s not as though he can correct anyone, clue them into the oh-so-more horrifying truth of the situation. He’s alone in this.

His dreams have taken a strange detour into fractures chunks of near-forgotten memory: that first hunt with his father and sister as a teenager, far out in the empty desert of New Mexico. Cornering that coked up werewolf in his trailer parked out by the bluff overlooking the river, cowering in the back as his father shot the beast in the throat, wincing as his sister laughed gleefully and pumped her fist in the air. The feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

They’re all like that, more or less. He’ll wake up every night in a cold sweat, torn between the ache of nostalgia and the thrill of horror for past deeds. Everything is backwards.

 

**IX.**

****

Eventually, he just stops sleeping altogether. It starts out as a sort of insomnia - he’ll wake up from a nightmare, then find himself unable to fall back into unconsciousness - but it quickly progresses to the point that even after hours of tiring work, exhaustion simply will not overtake him when he lies down for the night. He’s had friends and relatives with sleep troubles in the past, and they’ve talked his ear off about homemade remedies and little tricks he should try: counting sheep and focusing on his breathing, intentionally staying up past the point he wants to go to bed and waiting for thirty extra minutes, taking a shower to clear his head. Sleeping pills, in the end. Nothing works.

And then the auditory hallucinations begin.

Eating breakfast at the kitchen table, he’ll hear his name whispered on the air, softly at first - soft enough that he’s not entirely sure that it isn’t just is imagination. And then louder, more insistent, and he’ll clutch at his mug of coffee, hand shaking as he tries to ignore the voice. His wife’s voice.

She’s always there, it seems, lurking in his subconscious. Even when she isn’t speaking, Chris can still feel a sort of...presence. He chalks it up to foolishness, and sets up a visit to the doctor. The man he ends up seeing is professional and thorough, and at the end of the appointment, he politely explains to Chris that there is nothing physically wrong with him. He calls in the nurse, and then prescribes a sleeping medication that (of _course_ ) doesn’t do a fucking thing.

 

**X.**

It’s not until the next Friday that everything starts to slide into focus.

The doorbell rings, and Chris opens up to find Stiles Stilinski standing on his porch, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes bloodshot and weary. 

“Stiles?” Chris frowns, looks meaninglessly over his shoulder and back again. “Isn’t it a school day?”

Stiles scratches the back of his head, shifts his weight to one side. He pauses, sticking his tongue into his cheek. “I was wondering,” he starts slowly. “Would you happen to know what it might mean if I’m hearing the voice of my dead mother?”


End file.
